


I Couldn't Undo It If I Tried

by aidennestorm



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Childhood Trauma, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hanahaki Disease, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Language of Flowers, M/M, Pining, Unrequited Love, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21652852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aidennestorm/pseuds/aidennestorm
Summary: When Hamilton starts coughing up flower petals, he knows it as the blooming sickness immediately.He also knows he's running out of time.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton/George Washington
Comments: 19
Kudos: 91





	I Couldn't Undo It If I Tried

**Author's Note:**

> (Read more about [Hanahaki disease... ](https://fanlore.org/wiki/Hanahaki_Disease))

“Walk with me,” Washington says, voice low in the busy workroom. It’s an order, not a request— even if it was a request, Hamilton would still comply— and Hamilton cleans up with efficiency. Packs up his writing desk, the missive he’s working on, all the quills and ink, and tucks the thing under his arm. Washington’s pace is measured, but Hamilton has to step quick to keep up with him. 

Washington leads him into the woods with a nod to the sentries. Far enough in where they can’t be heard nor seen. Hamilton’s heart races for a few moments before he forces himself to think and consider— it’s no tryst that Washington is leading him out to, no matter what fantasies have so often played in his head. And besides, the severity of Washington’s face belies any gentler topics. 

When Washington stops, he does so abruptly. Shoulders tense as he says, “I know what you wish.”

Hamilton’s heart seizes; how could he have been so _obvious?_

The rest of Washington’s sentence barely registers over the hollow rushing in Hamilton’s ears. “But I cannot risk you on the front lines. I need you _here._ Our situation is more dire than you know.”

Hamilton’s customary twinge of disappointment hardly registers under the crushing relief of not being discovered. For once, he is grateful not to be _seen._ Surprisingly, Washington’s face imperceptibly softens, a wry ghost of a smile. “Though I’m sure you’ve suspected.”

Hamilton nods. Tries to swallow the lump in his throat when Washington puts a hand on his shoulder. It’s friendly, familial, guiding. Utterly proper. “What do you need, sir?”

Washington releases him after a moment. “All your talent and skill to bear, my boy. We _must_ get the support of Congress, no matter the cost.”

Washington turns away, profile tense and dignified in his sorrow. Hamilton thinks of long ago poems and he would pen one for Washington, if only he had the words. 

The lump in his throat gets undeniable, now. He coughs to remove the tickle in his throat, the feeling like having breathed in something material, clutching the writing desk against his side so he can cover his mouth with one hand. 

When he pulls his hand away, a crumpled crimson clover petal is tucked in his palm.

\- - - - -

Hamilton knows better than most about the blooming sickness. Unlike the punitive morality tales of the colonies, the stories Mama told were vivid and bright and real. But indelible in his memory is Mama throwing up bile and pink blood-flecked frangipani flowers, her tearful apology, the desperate reassurance that he was perfect, was _enough,_ that she wishes she had another choice. 

They couldn’t afford the surgery, even though she had been saving for it— she spent everything to keep him safe and warm and loved, after…

The petals were quick to settle in her chest after Papa left, but it took this final sickness, her clammy skin tight over the unnatural knots, to make her leave, too. 

He starts laying awake at night, rubbing his hand across his chest and wondering when he’ll feel inevitability set in. 

\- - - - -

He has allies. People he could beg favor from. The Schuyler sisters, who seem to have adopted him as a mischievous younger brother. John. Lafayette. But the thought of splitting open his body—losing the love of country for the love of the man who he _knows_ will someday lead it…

It’s simply unacceptable. 

He takes to carrying handkerchiefs with him. Easy enough to cover his mouth and spit spindly petals into the fabric. As the days bleed from one horror after another— as Congress denies and denies and denies him— as Washington leans ever further on his boundless drive— the coughing gets worse. One instance every few weeks, then weekly. Every other day, then daily, then more. 

After Washington bodily escorts him to the medical tent, he blames it on the encroaching cold, on lungs and limbs unused to such harsh temperatures, and sneaks away the moment the camp physician is occupied elsewhere. 

Washington is afield the day that Hamilton doubles over in the empty office, throwing up a shower of petals dotted with blood. He stares at them numbly for a moment, too late to hear the creaking of the door.

“Hamilton?” Lafayette calls, probing and concerned; Hamilton opens his mouth to demand privacy when he heaves yet another cascade. 

Lafayette crosses the room in an instant, setting a comforting hand on his back. The moment he peers around Hamilton’s shoulder he curses, then says despairingly, _“Alexander.”_

“You can’t,” Hamilton rasps. “You can’t say a word.”

Lafayette shakes his head. “You must—”

 _“What?”_ Hamilton retorts, near hysterical. “Tell him?” He is too aware that Lafayette knows his heart well enough that he doesn’t need to confess aloud. “There’s no _point.”_

“There could be!” Lafayette argues. “Alexander, you don’t know—”

“Look me in the eyes,” Hamilton demands. “Look me in the eyes and tell me my body is in the wrong.”

Lafayette’s face contorts in helpless, sick anger, because Hamilton already knows the answer. If Lafayette, the closest to Washington of everyone, knew his mind, he would have already spoken.

“You have nothing to lose.” 

It’s a last ditch effort, and Hamilton shakes it off as he crouches. “My dignity.” He wipes his mouth free of blood and pollen, and starts gathering the petals. “My honor.”

He lets out a soft huff of surprised breath when Lafayette drops to his knees and crushes him in an embrace. “I’m sorry,” Lafayette whispers, rough emotion under every word. _“I_ love you, my friend. I wish that could be enough.”

“It _is_ enough,” Hamilton counters immediately, truthfully, and neither one of them comment on the sudden dampness of Hamilton’s jacket under Lafayette’s cheek. 

\- - - - -

John inevitably discovers his affliction, too. His rage nearly rivals Washington’s, his swearing perfectly at home amongst the seediest of tavern crowds, but in his pending sojourn to South Carolina sets it aside with obvious difficulty. It’s John that leaves Washington’s office after midnight, hours before he’s due to ride, clapping Hamilton on the shoulder, squeezing, and startling him from the letter he’s not truly reading.

“The General’s asked to see you,” John murmurs, but he doesn’t look any happier. Nothing to resolve Hamilton’s resigned plight, despite that Hamilton knows his wayward heart is not the reason John was summoned. 

It’s bittersweet, finally having his own command. Washington salutes him with that steady hand and squared shoulders, gives him words of wisdom that Hamilton can scarce carry with him in the beyond. The tear in his throat is the worst it’s ever been, and for once Hamilton is grateful when Washington sends him away and bids him rest. 

He barely makes it back to his room, so empty now without his friends, before he retches. He can’t breathe; he’s on his hands and knees before he desperately hooks a finger deep as he can stand into his throat and sweeps. 

Two fully bloomed crimson clovers tumble to the floor. 

Hamilton doesn’t waste a moment scooping them into his hand, shoving them into the creases of his bedroll. Winded, he lays down and parts his waistcoat and shirt, looks at his chest— and he sees it and feels it, finally, the slight rise of his breast, the gnarled sinew beneath his skin stiff to the touch. 

He stares up at the ceiling. Tries to breathe through the pained wheezing. And though it’s been years since he’s given any thought to a higher power, he whispers voicelessly, _I know I’ve lost this battle. Please spare me long enough to win this war._

**Author's Note:**

> Cause I love you (and please forgive messy links; I could not make this work otherwise)--
> 
> -Clover means "think of me or be mine": http://www.angelfire.com/journal2/flowers/c1.html
> 
> -Also a fun fact, crimson clover grew at Mount Vernon: https://www.mountvernon.org/the-estate-gardens/gardens-landscapes/plant-finder/item/crimson-clover/
> 
> -Among its many meanings, plumeria/frangipani is "a symbol of devotion and dedication to someone": https://myflowermeaning.com/plumeria-flower-meaning/
> 
> -And it's native to the Caribbean islands: https://www.easytogrowbulbs.com/blogs/plant-care/plumeria-frangipani
> 
> ... I thought about this, y'all... xD
> 
> MANY thanks, as always, to my ever faithful beta reader. ^-^

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Boy you got me breathless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758434) by [Pinxku](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinxku/pseuds/Pinxku)




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